


The Desert, The Sky, The Road

by goretime



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, references to the first movie, schizophrenic mad max am i right ladies and gentlemen!!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4693169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goretime/pseuds/goretime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into the mind of Max Rockatansky circa "Fury Road." Basically Max is my mute schiz child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Desert, The Sky, The Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ruby blair](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ruby+blair).



> im schizospectrum myself so dont fight me okay. sorry this is tacky its my first fic ever

The days ran together like liquid, years of memories forming a single, giant sea inside his brain. It was hard to focus on the present when the past welled up chest-high all around him, filling everything he owned like the ever-present sand. His wife's screams echoed across the desert as he drove. Every passing car evoked their image; every revving engine recalled the sound of their bones breaking under wheel.

“Max,” they cried. “Save us!”

And when he drove past:“You killed us! You killed us!”

It was pointless to speak. There was no defending his failure.

 

At dawn and dusk, the mirages at the horizon looked and smelled like blood.

 

Under the heat of noon, when the pavement glittered with the sky's reflection, their motorcycles would ride beside him like vengeful demons. He'd rev the engine loud to cover their laughter, but it never worked. He'd scream, argue, run them over with his car-- they vanished like ghosts and they always came back. He stopped trying after the first month. He deserved worse anyway. It was actually a relief to feel something again, if only guilt and pain and regret.

His family had made him whole, and with them gone, he felt unhuman, subhuman. It suited him-- it made it easier to kill, easier to regress to his most basic instincts. He was no longer Max Rockatansky. He was the desert, the sky, the endless stretch of The Road. He was survival.

And he would survive, if only to tell the world, “ _Jessie and Sprog were here, once_.”

Imagining his speechlessness as a vow of silence, a vigil, was a hint of redemption. No bond could replace theirs-- no friendships, no alliances, no simple passing hellos. It wasn't even worth trying, especially when each word had to be fished like a minnow out of his swampy mind. When absolutely forced to speak, his words were sparse-- “Drop the gun.” “My car.” “Leave.” “Kill.” “Water.”-- and he offered them to his family as a prayer.

 

Until he met the Furiosa, that is, when everything came bubbling back to the surface like a clear desert spring and there was finally a reason to speak.

 

 

 


End file.
